


In the Wild Woods

by millionthline



Category: The Children of Húrin, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dirty Talk, First Time, Hair-pulling, M/M, Scratching, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millionthline/pseuds/millionthline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"One only was mightier in arms among the march-wardens of Thingol at that time at Túrin, and that was Beleg Strongbow; and Beleg and Túrin were companions in every peril, and walked far and wide in the wild woods together."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Wild Woods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tribumvirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribumvirate/gifts).



> This is for Taylor's prompt of Tureg smut, which should include spanking, dirty-talk and hair-pulling. The scratching, therefore, is very minor and just sort of happened, oops.
> 
> This one is for you gurl xoxo

"Give me leave, lord," said Beleg, "and on your behalf I will redress this evil, if I can. For such manhood as he promised should not run to nothing in the wild. Doriath has need of him, and the need will grow more. And I love him also."

The lilt in his voice had then turned low, serious in a quest that for him would begin if given permission or not. It did not waver when what seemed like a knowing hint of a smile passed the king Thingol's lips, or when Anchlachel bit his hands with brumal nips of steel. His strides took him to his quarters to supply his pack for the search; Beleg left that day with little more said than  _farewell, Menegroth._

* * *

Had Túrin Turambar learned that Thingol meant for him to come to Menegroth in peace rather than be charged for the death of Saeros he still would not have stayed, for the hurt had already been felt, and due to a temper easily flared a life had been lost. So, here between the brown-flesh trees he walked, clothes marked by weather and leaves caught in his hair, and his hunting boots touched the forest floor like any Elf's. His rushed parting had left him without much travel bread and a water skin half empty, so the invisible path littered by leaves and stray deer tracks lead him to one of the autumn hunting houses.

Long had he felt the small tugs of the wild beyond Doriath, filling him with lust for travel and his old home. However, had nothing changed, he would not have left. In all honesty, the man would have found his life satisfying if it could have been spent in his foster-father Thingol's house, granted there was a sheathed sword on his belt and Beleg Strongbow at his side.

It was high summer, and the house that broke cover from the trees stood empty and welcoming. The forest clearing let shafts of sun cast over his eyes, the shimmer of light that now rested there recalling the harvest times of past years. The center tree that peaked from the center of the hunting house quivered in the wind and washed over in a golden fire; in the generous width of the doorway Túrin could see his figure lean against the wood. Following his ghost's gaze would show where Beleg walked out from the trees, deer over his broad shoulders and baring his teeth in a grin that looked like home. And yet, now it was high summer, with the green leaves and a dark solitude in his heart.

Three years was much too little a time to have spent with Beleg, and now the memories writhed in his belly as a beast of regret.

He entered, and there was the bench where they'd both laughed, there a shared moment of pride when the woodland hart was placed on the skinning table, here under the tree that climbed through the opening in the ceiling, releasing shadows of the branches to crack like lightning on the floor against the moonlight, where Túrin and Beleg had stood and brushed noses in a fumbling kiss. That autumn had been good to them both.

A reserve of food in the lodge filled his bag, and outside near its entrance steps he looped the rope of the well string in his hand to pull up a water for his water skin.

The wisest course to take seemed to be through the north-marches of Doriath until the longhouse of Bëor stood before him, as those men were close in language to those of Hador and had seen adversity with such fortitude that they would not decline his need now. Even now, though Barahir was a last great legend of the House of Bëor, they began to fade from song, splintering across the lands; perhaps, Túrin mused, this could be used to an advantage. Just as his father Húrin had warriors, these men could be used as sword-arms under his command just the same.

Filled with thoughts akin to these, he collected a bedroll from one of the house closets, and under the lodging tree he laid it with a mind to sleep. Little did he think to foresee that as he ran water over his face to wash the day's grime from his skin that Beleg had the thought in mind to rest in a hunting house for the night before setting off in the morning. The Elf's steps blew over the leaf-littered ground like the summer's night breeze, and the moon danced in the threads of his light hair as he shifted before the lodge door.

At the sound of someone beginning to pass the doorway, Túrin jolted and moved like a shadow across the main room. As to who could be coming to this place in the middle of the night was a mystery to him, and one that he was fine with leaving as unknown, lest he be seen. So, he gathered his things that were piled on the side of the room and tried to make way to the side-door.

"Hello?"

Túrin's quiet footfalls stilled. He knew that voice.

Yet he didn't withdrawl from the shade. If anything, he crouched further into the dark, only a sliver of light falling over his face to catch a lock of hair and sharp gray eye and leaving the rest of his features defined only by their length of shadows: the angle of his nose, a fan of eyelashes, a small hill on his throat bobbing in anticipation. Beleg stepped under the moonlight and high overhang of branches to look down on the bedroll.

If he had not zipped in a sharp breath at the sight of the Elf bathed in silver light he would not have been detected. In hearing the noise a pair of keen blue orbs stabbed into the darkness. And how hard it was for Túrin to stay silent at all; at the sight of the other his chest ached and love pulled at half-hearted restraints towards his _Cúronmîr_ , a jewel wrought of the moon, for Beleg's hair glowed as snow in the night, and his eyes were the glimmers of light on the river when Tilion guided Isil over the woods.

It was that name that Túrin uttered as he stood and rose from the shade, and Beleg released his finger from Anchlachel's hilt to move to him. "Túrin," he said, clasping his hand on the man's shoulder. "It's a fortunate thing that I found you! King Thingol has no desire to punish you. He's granted you full pardon after hearing the story of Nellas, the Elf-maiden. She'd seen Saeros pester you and shown that his death was naught but a mistake."

"Nellas," Túrin said, and his memory stretched to the Elf from his childhood. It had been so long since he'd seen her, nonetheless thought of her her, and he was filled with gratitude. However, the bitterness he felt as well was not invisible under Beleg's eyes, and so the Elf drew away. "She has my gratitude."

"You don't mean to come back, do you?" Beleg's grin was gone by now, replaced by a thin line.

"I can't linger. My foster-father has been kind beyond reason, but he would not understand if I wished to leave this life without any promise of return. 'Tis better for me to leave now than in a guise of ingratitude."

Beleg was looking down now, aware of Túrin's steely gaze. "Then I will go with you."

At this Túrin shook his head and reached for Beleg's hand. "You," he grunted, "will stay here."

"These past seasons I've fought with you," Beleg argued, taking offense. If not for the disbelief pinched in his eyebrows, Túrin would have taken him as solely angered. "We've carried on well, at least on my part. Never say that I was one to doubt your skill, but there is strength to be had in numbers, whatever the quest."

For a moment Túrin merely regarded him, face contemplating, before he narrowed his eyes indignantly. "I can fend for myself as well as you, and think not otherwise; I've brought honor to my name as son of Húrin, and to the helm of my forefathers. Perhaps you've forgotten these last seasons you speak of."

"It is that I would not be parted from you, Túrin." Plain and honest. "Selfish as it may be. Did you think," and Beleg softened his gaze, his hand finding its way to the clothed flesh above Túrin's hip, "that I could be rid of as easily as this?"

A calloused hand shot up and grabbed Beleg's collar, made the Elf stumble back until he felt the bark of the tree on his shoulder blades, the spinning roots under his feet, and Túrin's face was suddenly very near his. "No," he admitted. "But I wish it were so." His eyes were on the other's lips, a dash of fleshy red seated at the white maw of a docile creature that allowed itself to be moved and swayed at the hands of the other, and there the man recalled what warm tastes and sweet cotton he'd found in them. Always simply exchanging breaths, enclosing the mouth ripened in pink with his own, but never further. "What strange fates will find you, Beleg Cúthalion, for loving me; and I have no wish to save myself from them, but here I cannot tarry."

When Beleg spoke his breath blanketed over Túrin's mouth, soaking his jaw in the redolence of froth over honey. His hands had returned to his own person, but a finger and thumb flickered over the man's cloak brooch and unclasped it; there the phantom of heavy black dropped to the floor like a flag, leaving the damp skin of Túrin's neck and collar bare against the silvery light. "Yet you sound uncertain."

Túrin allowed his clenched fingers to unwind from the fabric. They traveled along a path of hems and patterns to a belt that served every time before as the unscalable wall not meant to be passed, and in his eyes a challenge was presented. "If this were to be our last night, what would you do, my  _selfish_  Beleg?" Selfish, shining, sealed in silence at the posed query.

Then, "If it were our first?" And yet his hand was already over Túrin's, leading fingertips to unfasten the belt buckles their warm palms hovered over. Túrin allowed a lusty growl to sound in his throat as he took the Elf's cheek with his free hold to kiss him hungrily, and with his other he roughly pulled Beleg's pants down mid-thigh. However, it was Beleg who turned the tide by leading the merging of mouths down, down, until Túrin found himself sinking in the bedroll with his chest bare for the cool air to lick by leave of a fully unbuttoned top, and an Elf that straddled his legs and loomed over him against the shapes of dancing branches.

"I would be selfish indeed," he whispered, and the man of Hador squeezed his eyes and made a low noise when his partner's hand traveled along the line of hair on his belly to grasp a hardening thickness under his clothes.

The touch was short-lived, as it passed over far too soon to trail back up to the expanse of Túrin's chest. For a moment the man growled and lifted his hips greedily against Beleg's stomach, but then in the next he was in good humor, and only smiled wolfishly; there where he'd lifted he felt the heavy prick of his other, as the Elf's pants now tangled about his ankles like binds, and thus any concealment of his modesty was now long gone. Túrin's own touch traveled over his nape and deep into the roots of his long locks, his fingers curled and fisted and pulled down, tilting so that those lips could cover his once again. Like his own cloak to be torn and moved and draped over his body, he gripped tighter down on Beleg's hair and squirmed comfortably with the blond-headed male between his thighs and on his chest, blanketing him in warmth, and made his face pull away for a moment so that he could see the stinging water in blue eyes.

His fist loosened and Beleg let out a held in breath. Túrin leaned in to plant a kiss on the back of his jaw. "Unclothe me," he murmured. Beleg compliantly lifted his weight off him and seated back squarely in the middle of his legs, but he didn't move further for a time, so Túrin opened his eyes and saw there an expression of hesitation. "Would you not take me?"

The Strongbow looked up and set his jaw. Had there been a faltering in him before, in the face of his lover he sprung to action, gripping Túrin's belt and pulling down until his thickening arousal rose from its constraints and it had passed his feet. This, he reasoned, was as good a response as any. While the son of Húrin simply pulled an arm back to rest his head on and stroked himself lazily, Beleg fished from his jacket a phial and sloshed its liquid content on his hand. At the sight of the Elf's uncertainty he spread his thighs further and nodded his head encouragingly.

A flutter of lashes sealed his eyes when Beleg leaned and breathed over the top of his cock that had broken through his own fist. Ever searching for the hair falling over the other's face, Túrin moved his hand from his member to knot Beleg's locks between his fingers and simply waited in needy anticipation until the form of a warm, circled mouth enveloped his head in a hot and wetted sensation.

For having lived most of his life under the roof of Elves since childhood it was a given that Túrin had never before bedded another, but in his house of birth he often heard the talk of the sword and sheath from his father's warriors, or chanced a look upon the late night visits in the hay houses when he heard and grew curious of such meetings. However, no expectation placed in the past mind of his youth could have prepared him for the feeling of his first lover taking him with a persistent, widening throat. A shudder spread up his spine, but no matter how strongly his initial instinct to pull away was, Túrin only clenched to the back of Beleg's head harder to hold back an already welling moan.

While Beleg held his own to not choke down his lover's length, Túrin selfishly rose his hips higher and let out a broken gasp. He went as far as to let out a strained chuckle at his Elf's choking readjustments — and, oh, the spring of sudden saliva that he felt well around him and bleed down his cock to end cooling in the brown tufts at his base almost made him harder. Beleg bobbed his head once, and Túrin paused his own movements in hips and hand to tilt his head into his bicep, eyes tight in this new ocean of pleasure. The most obscene noises came out from this crude act, where he found it in him to continue working his hips, and when they finally found a pace he opened his blurred eyes to look down once again.

What loving words he could have spared as encouragement were then quite lost to him. The long dips of Beleg's mouth, the fan of his shut eyelashes, his nose pressing against his base and throat surrounding him to the fullest, it all made Túrin lust in the vulgarness of it. Now he was panting, but he didn't care; he mouthed words he only voiced in the company of his own self-pleasing hand, all akin to the vulgarities he'd heard in his past, along with the littering of more dark revelries in his heated mind. "You like my cock?" he asked in an almost chiding manner, and Beleg froze to look up at him. At the loss of movement Túrin _did_ moan, and he pushed the Elf's head down again.

"Your mouth feel so good, all around me," and he pulled his arm out from under his head to rest on the blushing flesh of his chest. "Do you like my taste?"

Beleg, if he wanted reply, was certainly not in the position to. However, he did slow, and his eyes flittered up once again through their fellatio-brought wetness to observe Túrin in a hesitant manner, as if not knowing what to make out of all this questioning. But for all that he may have wondered, there was no question of the man's hastening breaths or skin that quivered at his mouth. Húrin's son didn't miss the Elf's hand shoot to his own member when he let his head drop onto the floor and roll to the side lest he lost his view, and said breathily, "If you didn't suck me so well, I'd have you fuck me so hard that I couldn't see right for days."

Where confusion may have been before there was only a sudden flare of heath fire flame, and Beleg slipped his oiled hand between Túrin's ever-widening thighs. Knuckles easily passed over the pinkish button of his passage, and when the mouth was removed from his prick he barely took note of it because of the sudden prying of a finger through his entrance.

Túrin froze and held his breath in, the damp expanse of his chest ceasing its rolling breaths for a moment of stillness. The intrusion, despite an assisting slickness that had been given to it by the oil, felt burning and dry, and a cool sheen of sweat danced over his skin. Then the finger stopped, and Beleg's free hand pulled Túrin's from his hair so that their fingers locked. "I won't hurt you."

"Hurt me," Túrin breathed.

Again Beleg moved to blanket him with his finger still inside, and Túrin unclasped his hand from the other's to grab his partner's length on his hip and tug. His Cúronmîr's eyes widened, but then there was another finger prying into his entrance and a slow burn that made him want to work on those digits; so he did. A sudden nip of teeth bore down on his throat and Túrin only felt that and this new sweet friction that sent his skin peaking in heat, his mind set on only pushing them deeper in until they were everything. "Another," he growled when the faint pain was blurring, so Beleg complied and added a third, his hand pistoned until Túrin stopped trying to keep up and only tilted his head back and tightened his jaw against the river of plaints waiting to burst.

There was a small kiss pressed on his collar before the Elf sat up again to pause his ministrations and spill the rest of the phial onto his engorged member. But, contradictory to that action, Beleg didn't act further, and only settled his still try hand on Túrin's thigh as if to catch his breath. The man felt impatience pit in his stomach, almost taken aback by the sudden halt of pace. "Do you not want this," and it came as a declaration.

Beleg looked startled. "Of course I do!"

It occurred to Túrin at once that there must have been some difference in something. Perhaps Elves were less quick to excite was his first thought, but heaving up onto his elbows to glance at Beleg's oil-slathered prick said otherwise. Maybe he was not accustomed to such haste in couplings? Or perhaps, just as he, he didn't have any experience to speak of it; and the latter of the options seemed most likely. Much in contrast to his father's hall, under Thingol's house there was never talk gossip of overly free women or the intimate exploits of men.

He sat as upright as he could until he had to brace himself with one hand on Beleg's shoulder, for his legs were still about the Strongbow's hips, and there was little balance to be found solely on his bottom. "Then, does my haste cause you discomfort?" His head tilted and was received by a pair of anticipating lips, lazy and drawn until Beleg drew away to shake his head.

"Nay; it is only a fault of mine." His voice was deeper, more gravely and hesitant than Túrin was accustomed to. "I do not know how a man would be taken."

At this Túrin's guise of leisure grew to be considering, and he pressed his forehead to his Elf's and held his cheek in his palm so that blue eyes would not avert from his own. The brumal pools he stared into were more shaded like a night's sky than day, as their pupils were blown as large as the moon. "You have been accommodating thus far, Beleg," he said carefully, but Beleg's eyes fell and he felt concern grow in him. Was this truly not what he wanted?

"I only want to give you pleasure," and it sounded like an admittance. Then Túrin understood, and he would have smiled if he had not made sure not to, lest he seemed unsympathetic. It was his crude words, definitely, how he would surely feel pain in these impatient relations. So the Elf may think, at least. Another kiss.

"You have not given me anything but," the man reassured, and he laid on his back again, pulling Beleg down with him. "I'd only have you talk to me." Then he took Beleg's oiled hand by the wrist and pressed it in his inner thigh, so the hint was taken and the ministrations continued, except unlike before the Elf bowed his head and whispered sweet nothings into his ear.

Of course, this was not exactly what Túrin had meant in mentioning talk. He peered out from the nook of Beleg's neck when a fourth finger pushed in, brow curving and eyes closing, a held breath expelled, before an idea struck him. Surely such actions would be punishable. Thus, his sinew-strung arms were straightened of their bend of amorous embrace to stretch until his fingers found his lover's arse and his fingernails formed lengthy strips of red color under skin all up to the small of his back. He felt a tensing of muscles, heard a noise neither appreciative nor the opposite, but solely strained and riding out. The fingers in him curled, too, before moving him in a quicker speed. Túrin locked his legs tighter around Beleg's waist and let his fingertips linger before abruptly moving to crack his hand against the smooth of his other's behind. The jolt he felt in the other above him was gratifying, and his palm pressed into the flushing cheek below his touch.

"It would seem like I'm acting out of my place," he whispered, and let out a low moan when Beleg's pace drove harder, deeper, rocking him and setting a rhythm that announced itself in his open-mouthed breaths. "You certainly cannot leave me undisciplined."

And there it was, where the finger suddenly left him and he found himself left empty and wanting more, where the body above him finally saw what needs were required to be filled in this meeting. "Certainly not." The words were a fine success in being collected, though the Strongbow looked quite the contrary, and Túrin's hand instantly fled to his swelled prick. "On your hands and knees, then."

The dark-haired man waited for the weight to be off him before scrambling to comply, though an unexpected lightness of his legs was not expected; it was Beleg who held his hips and lead him to balance, and for a moment simply rested a hand on his back, the slick on his cock bringing light to what preparations were to be made now by lewd noises. Then, a pressure on his entrance that lingered before driving in, nearly causing Túrin to fall forward. But, he did not. There was too great a pleasure in such fullness to think of being rid of it, and he held his breath and pulled his member, stopping when a firm hand smacked his buttock to leave him in all sorts of indecent whines.

"Move, please," came Túrin's hoarse voice; but, part of him wished for the opposite, that he'd be left waiting at such tremendous heights. However, Beleg was too much of a generous lover to delve any farther in this teasing game. Instead he gripped onto Túrin's hips with digging fingers and plunged in again, and again, till the man's dark hair was ribboned in locks over his face and he rested his elbows on the floor to arch his back and growl profanities into the bedroll. Every hit on his blooming flesh sent a fire through his bones, and a companion hand creeping along his hip into the dip where his sex hung brought him to ram back without regard of this before steady pace. 

However, what moderate volume he'd been able to maintain in burrowing his face in the blankets broke with a shout when Beleg readjusted and hit a hidden swell within him. He clenched his jaw and simply rode it out; then all movement stopped, except his continuous pushing back on the intrusion. "Keep going," he said, nearly pleaded, though it was lost in the bedroll, and so the Elf wound the main mass of dark, rippled hair about his hands before pulling and revealing Túrin's face to the moonlight. His eyes watered at the action, but a much more raw desire welled in him at such primal force. "Keep going," he repeated, but Beleg was already sliding up to kiss the back of his neck.

The Elf was fully sheathed again, but the lack of friction made Túrin shake. "Let me hear you," murmured the lips against his damp skin pressed into his flesh. The hips flushed against his reddened cheeks moved slower this time, building up in a pace always too slow for him, even when again his angle was such to hit _that spot_ and it wasn't enough, nothing was enough to hold the heat in his body or carnal wants shortening his breath.

His ears weren't completely unhearing of Beleg's own wanton chants, either. At a point where Túrin bowed his back again and his lover's pace quickened, what strikes that had been long and deep shortened considerably. His fingers kneaded the bed cloth when the head in his abused passage slipped and dove back in carelessly until finally a liquid warmth filled him. It wasn't till moments after when these desperate thrusts stopped and the intrusion was pulled, still hard but spent and diffusing of heat, and the hand that had merely gripped Túrin's base moved up to his head and pumped.

What was the rest of his pleasure was drawn and intimate, where Túrin's hair was finally released and he was guided onto his side for easy access to his prick. Kisses were pressed to his mouth when Beleg lay pressed behind him to bring him to his end and let his wells and croons and crude mutters be swallowed, escaping here and there where their lips met and parted, and wetness trailed and lingered. Though, for as much a show of vocabulary he'd made thus far, Túrin only let out a small gasp to see through his release, spilling his seed into his lover's waiting hand. After a time where he once again found his breath, a wet cloth came to clean all the mess that their coupling had brought. It was then when he found sleep with Beleg nestled in his chest and a blanket over them to warm their naked bodies.

Sleep came as quiet as snowfall, quilting dreams over their eyes and resting peace in their tangle of limbs and joined skin.

* * *

The sun had not yet skirted the forest-top by the time Túrin woke. Beleg was still asleep at his side, though further away from an assumed roll to the other side of the small bedroll, so he made use of this lack of observance to press a last kiss on the Elf's shoulder before silently nudging the blankets off him. There he sat up and crawled to collect his scattered pieces of clothing before putting them on, and though he often didn't find it in him to care about the state of his appearance as of late, a quick comb was pulled through his hair to tame the chaos there.

He told himself to not feel guilty as he stood at the doorway, eyes resting on the long form at the base of the tree. After all, Túrin had warned him; he meant to leave without him, for in his heart he knew that the path placed before him was not at all suited for his beloved Cúronmîr, for it was wraught with shadow, sorrow, even doom. There he stayed there for a time in thought, now thinking on his next course. This meeting made him realize that Beleg would indeed expect him to travel north just as he'd planned. Perhaps a road that wouldn't be expected on the part of the Elves would be to go westward. At this thought, Túrin recollected the unguarded passes there, and after one final glance at his peacefully sleeping lover he trailed out the door and into the wild woods.


End file.
